


You'll Never Be Alone

by sunshinetina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinetina/pseuds/sunshinetina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is thinking about how he would never leave John. Another fic based on the fabulous art of 'thebritishteapot' on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Never Be Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Once again, based on the fabulous art of ‘thebritishteapot’ on tumblr: http://thebritishteapot.tumblr.com/post/22525232053/you-will-never-be-alone

I am there for him. I would always be. Even though he thinks I am forever gone, I would still be right under the dimmed window of 221B, waiting in the wet London snow, to catch a glimpse of his shivering body next to the curtains and his trembling rough hands holding the cup of hot tea tighter to his chest.

 

I would be there because he is the only person I have in my life. The only one I happened to call _my friend_. The only one whom I care about. _The only one in the world._

I would turn my collar up and I would eventually smile, remembering how he kept talking on and on about my cheekbones and my desperate need to show off and to look cool. Now I am trying to do the same – to look cool and unemotional, while deep inside everything is burning and decaying. He really _did burn_ the heart out of me. I was alone before. Now I am lonely. Because I know that John is out there – I look up at the window once again – he is  there, and I am here. I can’t be with him. I can’t hear him complimenting me. I can’t have a useless cup of hot milk. And I need all of this now. Because I am really sick. Sick of wandering around, without a goal, without a direction. I don’t need someone else to tell me I am amazing – the words would pass through me, without making any sign. His words, though, are carved down there, on the left side of my chest – a scar that keeps burning stronger and stronger with every minute of every hour.

 

I would go to 221B during the night. He would be asleep, but he wouldn’t snore – he does this only when he is calm and relieved. I can notice by the way he sleeps now that he’s not well. His hands are under his head, he is in his jumper (probably, not been washed for weeks – poor Mrs Hudson and her atrocious hip) and his old jeans. The blanket is on the floor – he probably noticed it falling but didn’t bother lifting it up.

 

So, I would be there – I smile to myself, thinking about this scenario of mine over and over again – when he falls asleep with his blanket on the floor. I would pick it and I would cover him, making sure he is good now and waiting to see this smirk of his when he is settled down and probably dreaming. I would stay there; right opposite to the sofa where he is laying now (he wouldn’t want to sleep in his bed). I would fold my legs in the chair I used to know so well, and I would watch him sleep. Sometimes he would have nightmares, but I would be there for him, pressing my cold fingers against his chins and forehead, whispering him everything is alright, until he is all good again. Then, when the dawn comes, I would fade away with it and I would be a memory, _just a magic memory_ stuck up in his mind of dreams.

 

The day would start – he would go to work and I would go with him. I’ve thought it over and over again – I could hide under a disguise and be one of his dying patients but yet... He would recognise me, I’m pretty sure. I’ve always been a reliable liar but not now, not with John. I can’t look him in the eyes and tell him I am dying. Because I am already dead. And I can’t lie to him I am someone else. Because even I don’t know who I am right now.

 

After work, he would call Mary to see her. Sometimes, she would text him. Sometimes, I would pickpocket her (she works near Trafalgar – I know that now) and take her phone. Then I would text him, ‘What an incredible weather! Let’s have dinner tonight? –Mary’ And then I would see his entire face glowing up a bit... Except his eyes. I swear – his eyes are never sparkling now, never smiling. And I am so desperate to see the shining dark blue sky in them. Never again.

 

So, he would hurry up home and he would take a shower. I would follow him, trying not to run and not to scream when he forgets the teapot on the hot plate and goes in the bathroom. I would hear the water running down and I would see the hot steams coming from beneath the door, urging myself not to come closer and not to hear John humming out of tune some awful lyrics. I would make a tea for him and I would put his favourite army mug on the table. But then he would come out of the bathroom and I would try to hide and... as idiotic as I am, I would go under the table. But, as always, he sees everything but doesn’t observe. He would come right next to the table, he would see the mug, he would question its presence there. And that’s it. His routine would go on. He would drink it – indignantly pointing out that he never drinks it sweetened (he would think it was Mrs Hudson who forgot his taste once again), and he would leave it aside, unsatisfied. Then I would come from under the table, I would take the mug and I would drink the tea – as awful as it is – but I would know that it was John who tasted it a minute ago. And this would make me happy. At least for awhile.

 

Then he would go out – dressed up for a nice chat and, possibly, for something else later on. He would have his favourite black jeans and his favourite fluffy jumper, his favourite dark green jacket. He would take an _Independent_ from the Evening Express nearby and he would wait for the bus. I would watch him, right behind a tree or the traffic lights, as his emotionless eyes move through the pages. He would smile now and then. He would sigh. He would lift up his head and then close the newspaper, upon seeing the bus coming. I would be late by then, so I’d hurry up to tell him that I am here and that I don’t want to leave him never again... But he would politely help the old lady to get off the bus and then he would get in. I would just manage to pass by and to touch his jacket with my glove. Then my eyes would follow the red bus as it speeds across the busy London streets.

 

He would have a splendid night. He would laugh, he would drink, he would talk with someone whom he actually cares about. And then he would spend the night with this lovely Mary. And as for me... I would stay here, lingering around this bus-stop, although it is snowy once again and dead freezing. Being alone is everything I have, after all. If not now, sooner or later it would protect me. The thoughts of John won’t. The undying idea of our friendship won’t. The desire of being his annoying flatmate won’t. I would do it alone, by myself. After all, I am Sherlock Holmes. _The clever detective in the funny hat_.

 

But no. Nothing happens the way I’ve planned it. I can see his swaying figure slowly approaching the black door of 221B. He is a bit drunk but he still does manage to open it – not being prudent enough to close it properly, though. I follow him – tears coming from my eyes as the wind (is it really the wind?) strikes my face. John doesn’t even bother taking his clothes off – he just throws the jacket on the floor and looks at the blanket on the sofa. Hesitates for a minute or two, then smiles bitterly and directs himself to my bedroom. I follow him, making quiet steps, my heart ripping off my chest. He enters the bedroom, sighs and takes off his muddy shoes. After several minutes I can’t hear a sound.

 

I enter the room slowly, barely heard. All I can see now is his golden blonde head in-between the thick bed-sheets. The same ones as three years ago. Oh, John... I go closer and closer. I watch him breathe and as I lean towards him, I notice the limpid tear coming from his left eye. He coughs a bit – the weather outside is too cold for him, I know. The tear is probably due to the wind as well. I kneel down, next to the bed, and then take my scarf off. I slide my fingers over his neck and tie it carefully. He sighs again and adjusts better. I smile, pursing my lips, desperately trying not to cry. With my back pressed on the bedside, I fall down on the floor and press my legs tighter and tighter to my oddly shivering body. All I can hear is my racing heart and John’s breathing.

 

‘Would you do this for me, Sherlock?’

 

I open my eyes quickly as I hear John’s voice. I look at him and exhale quite relieved. He is just dreaming.

 

‘Would you come back? Please.’

 

Tears are rolling down his face. The wind is too strong for both of us, apparently.

 

‘I am so alone, Sherlock. I need you so much.’

 

I can hear my own quiet sobs now as I lift myself up a bit, my nose touching the scarf on John’s neck.

 

‘I would come back, John, I promise. But not now, not like that. Just... keep your dreams fixed on me, John.’

 

And the dawn comes. I can hear John waking up, so I am in a hurry to leave Baker Street as soon as possible. And I do so. One quick look at the dimmed window up there. I turn my coat collar up again. I smile. I left my scarf with John. But it’s not the only thing I left with him. It’s my heart too.


End file.
